by Mayne Reid
CHAPTER NINETEEN.
THE "LOST BALL."
Travellers on such an errand as that which is carrying the gaucho andhis youthful companions across the Chaco, do not lie abed late; and theyare up and stirring as the first streak of blue-grey light shows itselfabove the horizon.
Again a tiny fire is kindled; the kettle hung over it; and the _mates_,with the _bombillas_, called into requisition.
The breakfast is just as was their supper--cold mutton, corn bread, and_yerba_ tea.
By the time they have despatched it, which they do in all haste, it isclear enough to permit of their taking up the trail they have beenfollowing. So, saddling their horses, they return to, and proceed alongit.
As hitherto, it continues up the bank of the Pilcomayo, and at intervalsthey observe the tracks of Francesca's pony, where they have not beentrampled out by the other horses behind. And, as on the preceding day,they see the hoof-marks of the shod animal, both going and returning--the return track evidently the more recently made. They notice them,however, only up to a certain point--about twenty miles beyond thecrossing-place of that tributary stream, now so full of sad interest tothem. Here, in a grove of _algarobias_, they come upon the spot wherethose they are in pursuit of must have made their night bivouac; thistold by some fragments of food lying scattered around, and the grassburnt in two places--large circular discs where their camp-fires hadbeen kindled. The fires are out, and the ashes cold now; for that musthave been two nights before.
Dismounting, they too make halt by the _algarobia_ grove--partly tobreathe their horses, which have been all the morning kept at top speed,through their anxiety to overtake the Indians--but more for the sake ofgiving examination to the abandoned camp, in the hope that somethingleft there may lead to further elucidation of the crime and its causes;possibly enable them to determine, beyond doubt, who have been itsperpetrators.
At first nothing is found to give them the slightest clue; only theashes and half-burned faggots of the fires, with some bits of _sipos_--which have been cut from creeping plants entwining the trees overhead--the corresponding pieces, in all likelihood, having been used as ropetackle for some purpose the gaucho cannot guess. These, and thefragments of food already referred to, with some bones of birds cleanpicked, and the shells of a half-score ostrich eggs, are all the_debris_ they can discover.
But none of these items give any indication as to who made bivouacthere; beyond the fact, already understood and unquestioned, that theywere Indians, with the further certainty of their having stayed on thespot over-night; this shown by the grass pressed down where their bodieshad lain astretch; as also the circular patches browsed bare by theirhorses, around the picket pins which had held them.
Indians certainly; but of what tribe there is nothing on that spot totell--neither sign nor token.
So concluding, Cypriano and Ludwig have climbed back into theirsaddles--the former terribly impatient to proceed--but Gaspar stillstays afoot, holding his horse by the bridle at long reach, and leadingthe animal about from place to place, as if not yet satisfied with thesearch they have made. For there are spots where the grass is long, andthe ground rough, overgrown also with weeds and bushes. Possibly amongthese he may yet discover something.
And something he does discover--a globe-shaped object lying half-hidamong the weeds, about the size and colour of a cricket ball. This toyou, young reader; for Gaspar knows nothing of your national game. Buthe knows everything about balls of another kind--the _bolas_--thatweapon, without which a South American gaucho would feel as a crusaderof the olden time lacking half his armour.
And it is a _bola_ that lies before him; though one of a peculiar kind,as he sees after stooping and taking it up. A round stone covered withcow's skin; this stretched and sewed over it tight as that on a tennisball.
But to the _bola_ there is no cord attached, nor mark of where one hasever been. For there never has been such, as Gaspar at a glanceperceives. Well knows the gaucho that the ball he holds in his hand hasnot been one of a pair strung together--as with the ordinary _bolas_--nor of three in like manner united, as is sometimes the case; but a_bola_, for still it is a _bola_, of a sort different from either, bothin its make and the mode of using it, as also the effect it is designedto produce.
"What is it, Gaspar?" simultaneously interrogate the two, as they seehim so closely examining the thing he has picked up. At the same timethey turn their horses' heads towards him.
"_Una bola perdida_."
"Ah! a ball the Indians have left behind--lost, you mean."
"No, _senoritos_; I don't mean that, exactly. Of course, the redskinshave left it behind, and so lost it. But that isn't the reason of mycalling it a _bola perdida_."
"Why, then, Caspar?" asks Ludwig, with the hereditary instincts of the_savant_, like his father, curious about all such things. "Why do youcall it a lost ball?"
"Because that's the name we gauchos give it, and the name by which it isknown among those who make use of it--these Chaco Indians."
"And pray, what do they use it for? I never heard of the thing. Whatis its purpose?"
"One for which, I hope, neither it nor any of its sort will ever beemployed upon us. The Virgin forbid! For it is no child's toy, I canassure you, _senoritos_; but a most murderous weapon. I've witnessedits effects more than once--seen it flung full thirty yards, and hit aspot not bigger than the breadth of my hand; the head of a horse,crushing in the animal's skull as if done by a club of _quebracha_.Heaven protect me, and you too, _muchachos_, from ever getting struck bya _bola perdida_!"
"But why a _lost_ ball?" asks Ludwig, with curiosity still unsatisfied.
"Oh! that's plain enough," answers the gaucho. "As you see, when oncelaunched there's no knowing where it may roll to; and often gets lost inthe long grass or among bushes; unlike the ordinary _bolas_, which stickto the thing aimed at--that is, if thrown as they should be."
"What do you make of its being found here?" interrogates Cypriano, moreinterested about the ball in a sense different from the curiosity feltby his cousin.
"Much," answers Caspar, looking grave, but without offering explanation;for he seems busied with some calculation, or conjecture.
"Indeed!" simultaneously exclaim the others, with interest rekindled,Cypriano regarding him with earnest glance.
"Yes, indeed, young masters," proceeds the gaucho. "The thing I nowhold in my hand has once, and not very long ago, been in the hands of aTovas Indian!"
"A Tovas!" exclaims Cypriano, excitedly. "What reason have you forthinking so?"
"The best of all reasons. Because, so far as is known to me, no otherChaco Indians but they use the _bola perdida_. That ball has beenhandled, mislaid, and left here behind by a Tovas traitor. You areright, _senorito_," he adds, speaking to Cypriano. "Whoever may havemurdered my poor master, your uncle, Aguara is he who has carried offyour cousin."
"Let us on!" cries Cypriano, without another word. "O, Ludwig!" headds, "we mustn't lose a moment, nor make the least delay. Think ofdear Francesca in the power of that savage beast. What may he not dowith her?"
Ludwig needs no such urging to lead him on. His heart of brother isboiling with rage, as that of son almost broken by grief; and away ridethey along the trail, with more haste and greater earnestness than ever.